


My Dinner With Leonard

by Cinaed



Series: The Best of Carolina The Teenage Witch [22]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sabrina the Teenage Witch Fusion, Family Dinners, Family Issues, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 09:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20355973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: In this episode, Carolina has her first dinner with her father in almost a year and Grif and Simmons have their second surprise visitor in a week.





	My Dinner With Leonard

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks goes out to Aryashi as always, and creatrixanimi as well for some great suggestions with the dialogue. I've been wanting to write this chapter for ages, so I hope everyone enjoys it. :D

The thunderclap and lightning flash from the upstairs closet make Carolina jump, even though she’s been expecting them. Her heart jumps too, right into her throat. She’s already feeling too many things at once, and she hasn’t even seen her father yet.

She lingers at the bottom of the steps, waiting and pretending not to notice how Church has already thrown himself into his chair at the kitchen table, his arms folded and a grim scowl on his face.

“Good evening, Leonard!” Grey calls cheerfully. “Come on down!”

There’s a pause. Then Carolina’s heart gives another jump as her father’s voice fills her ears. She knows that dry tone, knows even if she can’t see his face yet that he’s raising an eyebrow as he says, “Good evening, Emily.”

Then he appears at the top of the stairs, dressed in the business suit he's always worn during charity fundraisers and special events. He pauses, his eyes filmed white with magic behind his glasses. He says slowly, “Good evening, Carolina.”

Carolina’s heart is still lodged in her throat. She wouldn’t know what to say, anyway, that she hasn’t already yelled. She just looks up at him.

After a second of silence, he fumbles for the handrail and begins a slow descent. In any other situation, it would be a comical sight, watching her father inch down the stairs, searching for the next step with his foot and looking completely undignified. Halfway down, he gives a small shake of his head. “Right,” he says, seemingly to himself, and snaps his fingers.

He disappears from the stairs and reappears in the living room with a pop of displaced air.

Now, of course, he has to navigate himself into the kitchen. Carolina watches as he looks left and right and then walks slowly towards a wall, his hand slightly outstretched. She should probably help him. Then again, she thinks bitterly, he did just fine without her for months. He can figure it out himself.

Everyone else seems to be in agreement. There’s a long stretch of silence as her father walks to the wall. His fingertips brush against the wallpaper. He stops. There’s the familiar eyebrow raise. “Am I even close to the dining room?”

“Speaking of the dining room, we had Carolina practice her food spells for dinner,” Kimball says, not answering the question.

Carolina’s father turns a little at the sound of her voice. His eyebrow lowers. His blind eyes flicker briefly, like he’s looking around for something. “Food spells are useful enough,” he says evenly. Apparently hearing Kimball’s voice was enough to reorient himself. Knowing where the kitchen is doesn’t stop him from slamming his foot into the door-frame.

For a second Carolina doesn’t think it was as painful as it looked. Then his expression goes completely blank, with a slight tightening of his lips, and he takes in a very slow breath. He keeps walking, a little gingerly.

Church’s scowl is briefly banished by a delighted smirk.

It’s only when her father finds the back of a chair and maneuvers himself into the seat that Carolina actually moves. She doesn’t sit next to him. Instead she sits next to Church, who shoots her a look, his smirk shifting back to an uncomfortable frown.

“Well!” Grey says brightly. If anything, she looks pleased by the palpable tension in the air. She points her finger and the food Carolina has spent the past hour magicking into existence begins portioning itself out onto every plate. “Let’s dig in!”

Carolina’s father glances down at his plate as the plates softly clatter. There’s the slight tightening of his lips again. Carolina hasn’t thought about how he’s going to navigate eating while temporarily blind, and she suspects by the way he puts his hand to the table and slowly moves it forward in search of either utensils or his drink, he hasn’t either. After a second's struggle, he locates his glass.

He’s just taken his first careful sip when Grey says, “So I know Carolina and I are dying to know what you've been up to these last eleven months!”

Carolina’s father chokes on his drink.

Carolina’s stomach twists itself into a knot. She’s hit by the same feeling she did in Simmons’ apartment, where she wants and fears an answer or explanation. What excuse could her father give that would make things better? She bites her lip, and tries to smooth out her own expression. Judging by the way Kimball glances at her, her face is giving her away. She tries to distract herself with Church.

She glances at him, expecting another smirk. He is, a little, but he also watches her father intently, like he wants to know the answer. He still doesn’t say a word. Carolina begins to wonder if he plans to keep quiet the entire dinner and pretend that he’s not there.

Meanwhile, her father finishes coughing and blinks in Grey’s direction. “Excuse me?”

Kimball leans back in her chair. “She asked what you were up to for the last eleven months. I’m pretty curious too.”

Carolina’s father glances towards Kimball as well, his blind eyes still unsettling even as they squint. “Maintaining things,” he informs her curtly. “Finally getting involved in my family's business. Repairing my reputation after--” He stops abruptly. His lips go thin again as a still-silent Church glares daggers. “Well, after what happened in October.”

“Family business?” Carolina repeats. She tries to imagine what kind of family business witches would have and comes up blank.

Her father’s head turns swiftly towards her. For a second he hesitates, and then a faint smile twists his mouth before his expression settles into neutrality. “Yes, the family business. I admit it's not terribly flashy, but my parents ran one of the original mass producers of cauldrons. I inherited it from them, of course.”

“You inherited it? So my grandparents _are_ dead?” As surprise flickers across his features, Carolina adds, a little defensively, “Witches live at least a thousand years, right? I didn’t know if--”

“Yes, they are,” her father says quietly. “They passed some time ago. I wouldn’t have lied to you about that.”

Carolina swallows against the impulse to snap that he’s lied about everything else in his life. That’s unfair. She knows from Grey and Kimball that he had to lie to her about being a witch or else risk the Council taking her away. She can’t blame him for that. She _can_ blame him for the eleven months though. She fiddles with her fork, her appetite gone. She wants to ask about her grandparents, but she’s acutely aware of Grey and Kimball. And Church, whose expression is unreadable.

“Cauldrons,” she says instead. “I guess for witches that’s, um, a steady job?”

“Steady,” her father agrees. “As I said, not flashy, but profitable and reliable. Witches always need cauldrons.”

Carolina thinks of Felix and Locus’s cauldron. She wonders if it was one of her family’s models. She’s suddenly very glad that her father can’t see her face. “Right,” she says. She picks up her fork and adds quickly, “Uh, I did make the food. I guess we can give it a try?”

“You make it sound so appetizing,” Kimball says dryly, but she smiles at Carolina as she says it. “I’m sure it’s all come out fine.”

Carolina tries to smile back. She’s left a trail of disastrous food behind her in the last day and a half, but she thinks that she’s managed the specific meal this time. She tries not to stare too obviously as her father awkwardly navigates his dinner plate.

He tastes a spoonful, oblivious that half of it has fallen back onto his plate. His eyebrows twitch slightly upwards. “Sweet potato and apple kugel,” he says after a moment. He stares slightly to the left of Carolina's ear. There’s a tinge of ruefulness in his voice as he adds, “Your mother’s favorite.”

“Yeah,” Carolina says, and leaves it at that.

Her father is quiet again. Then he clears his throat. “I see you have been working hard on food spells. The krugel, ah, tastes familiar.” Before Carolina can react to that, or even to taste the krugel herself and see if she made it exactly like he does for her mom, he clears his throat again. “I do hope Emily has expanded your magical education beyond supplying the household with meals.”

“Well, Vanessa and I have certainly tried,” Grey says brightly. “Carolina is a brilliant witch when she puts her mind to it, but there has been the occasional lack of enthusiasm. Perhaps you being here will be a good incentive for her to get excited about her spellwork!”

“Why wouldn’t Carolina be excited?” her father asks blankly as Carolina shoots Grey a glare and Church grimaces towards Carolina in sympathy.

Kimball says, dry as the desert, “I’ve found that for some half-mortals the downsides can sometimes outweigh the upsides of magic.”

“Ah,” her father says slowly.

Carolina takes a grim bite of her krugel, barely noticing that it tastes exactly like her father makes it.

It’s going to be a long dinner.

* * *

Locus didn't choose this. When he befriended Felix all those centuries ago, he didn't expect to wind up here, all his options whittled down to this one. He tries to think of another way he hasn’t considered. He comes up blank again.

He sighs and knocks on the door.

The door opens a few inches and then stops with a sudden jerk as a familiar witch stares out at him. Locus has a second to recognize the man who tried to turn him and Felix mortal during the fight, the same one who rescued the teen witches after the escape from Pluto.

Then the redheaded witch shrieks and slams the door in his face.

Locus waits. As the muffled sound of an argument begins behind the door, he puzzles over the witch. Clearly he’s the witch assigned as Dexter Grif’s guardian for his sentence, but the spellbook hadn’t given his name or shown that he lived at the same address as Dexter Grif. Locus remembers Carolina’s red hair. Maybe he’s her uncle, but if that was the case, why wouldn’t he--

The door opens again, but this time with the security chain latched. Dexter Grif pokes his head out into the hallway. He gives Locus a long stare, which Locus returns. Dexter Grif licks the tip of his nose and then says casually, “Surprised to see you not on Pluto. And with two legs. Promise Simmons you’re not here to kill us, and you can come in.”

Locus blinks. Then he says carefully, “I am not here to kill either of you.”

“See?” Dexter Grif says, turning his head a little. His ears flick back and forth. “Told you so.”

Simmons snaps, sounding annoyed, “Excuse me for thinking a convicted murderer was here to murder us, Grif.”

Dexter Grif snorts. ”Dude, you’re paranoid.”

“I am not!” Simmons protests from behind the door. “I am exactly the right amount of concerned for this very weird situation! Under the circumstances--” When Dexter Grif snorts again, Simmons adds testily, “And my neighbors already think I’m weird, and this isn’t helping!”

“Why would your neighbors think you’re weird for letting a dude into your apartment? He’s not wearing a sign that says he’s a magical murderer. Worst case scenario, they’ll assume you actually have friends.”

Locus winces a little, glancing up and down the hallway. No one has left their apartments to investigate the earlier shriek, which is both lucky and slightly worrying. He says, “Maybe you two shouldn’t keep discussing my past crimes out in the hallway?”

“Right,” Simmons says. There’s the rattle of the lock chain, and then the door is opened with reluctance. He stares at Locus, suspicion and alarm radiating off him in waves as Locus steps inside.

“So, not that I wanted you stuck on Pluto, but, uh, why _are_ you here?” Dexter Grif asks.

Locus frowns. “I need your assistance.”

“We’re not overthrowing the Council!” Simmons says quickly.

Locus stares at him. “Maybe I should make myself clear. I am not here to kill you or ask you to engage in treason against the Council or engage in any illegal activity.” He considers this last part. “I think. I’m still learning mortal laws.”

“Uh, okay?” Simmons says. He still looks nervous.

Locus takes a deep breath. “I don’t understand the washing machine.” He feels foolish the instant the words are out of his mouth, but he can’t take them back. He endures both Grif and Simmons’ stares. “There are so many dials and options, I--”

“I, uh, not to be rude, but uh, can’t you just--” Simmons twirls his finger in the air.

Locus glances towards Dexter Grif, who’s jumped up onto the couch. Only now does he notice the orange cast on Dexter Grif’s leg. He pauses, briefly distracted by it, an uncomfortable emotion twisting in his stomach. Then he refocuses. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Didn’t come up,” Grif says, at the same time Simmons’ eyes narrow and he says, “Didn’t tell me what?”

“That I gave up my magic,” Locus says. Even as he says it, he doesn’t feel regretful, precisely. Still, mortality is a hard thing to adjust to. The first morning he woke up with a crick in his neck from sleeping wrong he’d nearly run to Dexter Grif in a panic. He watches shock bloom on Simmons’ face. “Oh. He really didn’t tell you.”

“I already said it didn’t come up,” Dexter Grif mutters, but his tail is twitching rapidly and his ears are flat against his head.

“OF COURSE IT DIDN’T, GRIF! I DIDN'T KNOW THAT WAS A THING WITCHES COULD DO.”

Locus frowns at Simmons’ outraged yell. “How did you not know that?” He tries to gauge Simmons’ age, but he can’t tell. He could be as young as twenty-five, as old as two hundred. “Did you just become a witch recently? I wouldn’t have thought that the Council would assign Dexter Grif to you in that case--”

“Oh, uh,” Simmons says. He suddenly looks even more nervous than before. “Okay, uh, before I explain, I need you to make another promise. To, uh, not mind-wipe me? Like, it wasn’t fun when the stooge threatened to do it, or Doctor Grey, so, uh, I don’t want a third time--”

“I don’t have magic,” Locus reminds him.

Simmons laughs awkwardly. “Right! Right! Because witches can apparently just...give up their magic. That’s a thing. Uh, so I’m mortal.”

Locus looks at him. “No, you aren’t.”

“Uh, yes, I am.”

“I saw you do magic,” Locus says.

“Mortals can do magic,” Simmons says. Before Locus can say that’s impossible, the man amends, “Well, at least some can. Well, uh, I can. I don’t exactly have a test group to see if I’m an anomaly or--” He shrugs. “So, yeah. I am a mortal and I can do magic. Sometimes. We’re figuring it out.”

“We,” Dexter Grif mutters darkly.

Simmons frowns. “I don’t know why you’re so against Leonard helping me with my magic--”

“I don’t trust Leonard as far as I can throw him,” Grif says. He waves a paw, making the movement somehow sarcastic. “Besides, like, sure, it’s nice he’s helping you try to do magic, but what’s he getting out of it?” His whiskers twitch. “Plus, he’s been over so much this week you should start charging rent.”

Locus stares between them and decides he doesn’t want to know. He wants to think about magic and the Other Realm as little as possible. “So you’ll help with the washing machine?”

Simmons blinks at him, like he’s forgotten about the whole washing thing. “Oh yeah. The washing machine. Uh…. I guess so?” He seems less than enthusiastic at the idea.

Dexter Grif snickers. “Hey, Simmons. Maybe you should write up a How to Mortal 101 guide for him.”

Locus tries not to be obvious about watching Simmons as the man scowls at Dexter Grif. Even if he plans to steer clear of the entire situation, he’s curious about this mortal who’s learning magic. Control had told him that a mortal life-span suited the Council fine as a death sentence for his crimes, but he doesn’t want to attract their attention again.

Still, he studies Simmons. The man is quivering with exasperation and nerves, but on closer inspection, he looks tired. There are shadows under his eyes as though he’s been working a little too hard.

“You’re not funny,” Simmons says.

“My washing machine?” Locus prompts.

Simmons startles. Pink creeps into his face. “Uh. Right. Yeah. So do you live nearby or--”

Locus points up towards the ceiling.

“You. Uh. You live here. In this building. Oh, okay. I, uh-- sure. Was that because the C--” Simmons stops talking so abruptly that Locus can hear his teeth click together. “You know what, uh, never mind. None of my business!” He makes no move towards the door.

Locus sighs. “The washing machine,” he says for the third time.

“If you’re worried he’s gonna murder you in his room, I’ll come along,” Dexter Grif says, snickering.

“Shut up, Grif,” Simmons hisses through clenched teeth.

Locus sighs again.

* * *

Carolina doesn’t know how she expected the dinner to go, but she wasn’t quite expecting stilted small-talk about her classes. Her father nods along as she tells him about the track team and Wash and her other friends. Mentioning her chemistry class means mentioning Mr. Simmons, which briefly derails the conversation.

Grey can’t contain her curiosity. She leans forward.

"And how _is_ your little experiment with Mr. Simmons going?"

Carolina's father frowns. “We’ve been essentially studying the foundations of magic and trying to learn his limits.” He doesn't elaborate. Instead he taps his fingers against the table and gazes sightlessly in Carolina’s direction. “It sounds like you have your academics and your extracurricular activities well in hand. Just remember you need to be well-rounded with your spellwork if you want to become a witch.” He pauses. “I would offer to teach you a few spells I suspect will be useful in the near future, however….” He waves at his eyes. “Emily and Vanessa will have to help you.”

Carolina’s startled when Church speaks up for the first time the whole night, his voice thick with sarcasm. “How would you--”

Her father jumps, forcefully enough that the entire table rattles. His face swings towards Church, his usual reserve gone as surprise widens his eyes. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything, just stares for a second.

Church blinks, his sneer faltering.

Grey laughs. “Finally decided to join the conversation, James?”

Church turns a scowl on Grey. “I’m just saying, how would he know? It’s not 993 A.D. Times have changed. They’re not going to care about spells he learned as a kid for the--”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s 993 or 1998,” her father says testily, apparently recovered from his surprise. “Foundation magic hasn’t changed drastically over the centuries. She should--”

“Wait,” Carolina says. She stares between them. Her eyes linger on the silver in her father’s hair, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Now that she thinks about it neither Grey nor Kimball have silver or white in their hair, and they’re both four hundred or so. “Dad, how old are you?”

Her father doesn’t answer immediately. He actually glances towards Grey and Kimball before visibly remembering that he can’t see them. Then he drums his fingers against the table again. Slowly he says, “One thousand and, ah, twenty-two, I believe. A witch can lose track after the first millennia.”

“One thousand and twenty-three in May,” Kimball offers.

She sounds amused, but Carolina’s too busy staring at her father to look over and confirm it. “One thousand and-- I-- how long do witches _live_?”

Her father frowns. “Emily, haven’t you explained?”

Grey giggles. “Well, I have mentioned once or twice that witches live much longer than mortals, but she’d already gone through a few shocks in such a short time, Vanessa and I thought we’d bring up the average life span later on.”

“How,” Carolina says faintly. She can’t quite finish the sentence.

Church smiles slightly crookedly at her. “Two thousand years, if a witch doesn’t get himself killed doing something dumb. Or dropped into a volcano.”

“Oh,” Carolina says, even more faintly than before. She can’t imagine living that long. Two thousand years? How--

Church adds, “But like I said, most witches die doing something dumb.”

Grey giggles. “Oh, yes. The stories I could tell! There was of course the first witch who attempted to visit Pluto--”

* * *

Locus, Simmons, and Dexter Grif stare at the washing machine.

Then Simmons clears his throat. Locus watches him fidget with his glasses. “Well, for, um, one thing, you could probably use detergent. And fabric softener. I could write up a list of stuff you need? And, uh, honestly, maybe Grif’s how to guide wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“I was joking, you nerd,” Grif says.

Simmons flushes. “It’s a good idea! He needs the basics! Just let me go get the, uh, the detergent and a notebook and uh. Yeah. Just give me a second?” He phrases it like a question, but doesn’t wait for a response, backing up and disappearing back out the door.

Grif snorts. “Sorry about him.”

“It’s...understandable.”

Grif flicks his tail. He doesn’t say anything for a second, but he glances up at Locus.

Locus braces himself for questions. Of course Grif would be curious. The last time they saw each other, the Council was testing Locus and discovering he really had thrown all of his magic at Felix, and Grif was busy lying about his involvement with Felix’s death.

All Grif says though is, “Have fun with laundry, cooking, washing dishes and all that other mortal crap.”

“Washing dishes hasn’t changed much over the centuries,” Locus says mildly.

“Uh, sure, until mortals invented a thing called the dishwasher.”

“...The what?”

“Dude,” Grif says with feeling. “_Please_ let Simmons show you how to use one.”

When Simmons returns, wearing a seemingly permanent nervous smile, he says in a stuttering rush, “So, um, let’s get your laundry going and then I’ll just, uh, write up some basic housekeeping stuff. That should get you started. In a week you’ll be acting like you’ve been mortal your whole life!”

“Yeah, about that. He doesn’t know how to use a dishwasher,” Grif says.

Locus gives him a betrayed look.

Simmons blinks. “Oh.” He glances down at his notebook, clearly doing some recalculating in his head. “That’s okay,” he says, rallying. “I’ll just make the guide as detailed as possible!” He sets the notebook on top of the washing machine and two other boxes that look like the detergent and fabric softener he mentioned earlier. He pours in some detergent and then promptly busies his hands with fiddling with a few of the dials without, from Locus’s limited understanding, turning on the machine.

Simmons doesn’t look at Locus, which is why the sudden outburst of questions takes him by surprise.

“How do you afford this apartment? What exactly is your punishment? Are we even allowed to talk to you? Is Locus a first or a last name? And, uh, what does giving up your magic mean?”

Locus stares.

Meanwhile, Grif snickers. “Got any more questions for him?”

Simmons goes pink. “Sorry! I just, uh--” 

Locus says, “I pawned a watch, I’m exiled to earth, yes, neither, and I’m functionally mortal.”

“...Oh,” Simmons says. Then he squints. “Wait, neither?”

Locus regrets his honesty as Grif fixes interested mismatched eyes on him. It’s one thing to give his real name to the landlord, who doesn’t know his past. It’s another to explain to two men who know at least a fraction of it. “Locus is a...code name. I was named Samuel Ortez.” The name still feels strange in his mouth after so many years of disuse.

Grif keeps staring. “Yeah, okay. You kind of look like a Sam.”

“Do I?”

Simmons coughs. “What does exiled to earth and being functionally mortal mean?”

Grif snorts. “Locus doesn’t have to play Twenty Questions to get the how to mortal guide, Simmons. Besides, exiled to earth is pretty obvious. No trips to Venus, no hopping over to the Other Realm, nada.” He pauses and glances in Locus’ direction again. As expressive as his feline face is, Locus isn’t sure what Grif is thinking when he adds, “And witches become mortal when they give up their magic.”

“Mortal? Like-- so-- uh. Oh.” Simmons stares at Locus, wide-eyed. “Is that, um, does that happen a lot?”

“No,” Grif says flatly. “Now please show Locus how to use the washing machine. I’m hungry.”

Simmons clearly has more questions, but he's also clearly worried about trying Locus' patience. He presses a few buttons, and the laundry room fills with the sound of moving water. Then he opens up the notebook and pulls a pen out of his pocket. Locus watches in bemusement as he clicks the pen. It seems to have multiple colors loaded into one pen. "Okay, yeah. Let’s start with the washing machine. Then we'll do the dishwasher and then maybe, like, how to pay rent and stuff?” He frowns. “Do you have a bank account? ....Do you have a job?”

Locus frowns. Pawning his watch had helped him to put down a deposit and afford a few weeks of food, but his money is running low. “I’m working on it.”

“So that’s a no,” Grif mutters.

* * *

A twitch of Grey’s finger sends the dishes and utensils towards the open dishwasher. Carolina is still watching every dish settle into place when Grey asks, “So, same time next week, Leonard?”

Carolina tries to keep the conflicted hope off her face. The dinner has been awkward, and she’s still angry at him, but she’s missed him so much. The idea of actually getting to see him each week makes the next thirteen months slightly more bearable.

She sees a flicker of hesitation in her father’s features, and has a second to be hurt by it before he tilts his head a little in her direction and says slowly, “If that is what you want….”

Church has been tense all dinner. Even after he spoke that first time and made her father jump, he’s been pretty quiet, save for the occasional sarcastic remark. Now he explodes, and everyone at the table stares at the frustration in his voice.

“Oh my god, of course that's what she wants, Leonard! Seriously, did you get dumber or is mortal school making me smarter or what? Like, she’s missed you, of course she did, you dumb--" Carolina elbows him. He cuts himself off with a grimace. “Okay, Grey, since this is gonna be a regular thing, can I just eat in my room on Thursdays?”

“No,” Grey says, cheerfully ruthless.

Church groans.

Carolina’s father is staring at Church, or at least towards him, confusion in his face. Then he gives a small shake of his head. “Really, Emily, I think you’re taking too much pleasure in this.”

Grey smiles. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Kimball says, but she looks amused.

Carolina’s half-expecting her father to argue that Church shouldn’t be at these dinners, but he doesn’t say anything. She realizes she hasn’t said yes when Kimball’s amused expression shifts to a questioning look. She says quietly, “Thursdays won’t work when I start track again. Could we do Tuesdays?”

This time her father doesn’t hesitate. “If Tuesdays work better for you, then of course.” He pauses, and then asks in a tone that implies he already knows the answer, “And Emily, perhaps next time Carolina and I could have a private family dinner?”

“No,” Grey repeats.

Church groans. “This is gonna be worse than being grounded.”

“Grounded? Why are you grounded?” her father asks.

There’s a beat of silence as everyone looks at each other and comes to a silent agreement that they’re not going to discuss the whole Felix and Locus thing tonight.

“None of your business,” Church mutters.

Her father looks annoyed. Then his eyes narrow. “If you’re being a bad influence--”

“Dad!” Carolina protests, about to come to Church’s defense.

The objection dies on her lips when Church unexpectedly laughs. He glances at Carolina, and she rolls her eyes at his amused expression, which is eloquent. _I’m the bad influence_? _I’m not_ _the one doing all the dumb crap here. I'm just along for the ride. _

_Shut up,_ she mouths at him, feeling her cheeks get hot. Okay, maybe most of the Felix situation had been her fault, but it's not like he hasn't done some stupid stuff too. 

Church laughs again. “Yeah. Don’t worry, Leonard. Carolina ignores like eighty percent of my advice.”

“That’s because half of your advice is just to eat junk food,” Carolina says.

It’s a familiar argument. She expects his grin and his answer. “You’re a witch. You don’t have to worry about cholesterol. Eat what you want.”

“What I want is good food,” Carolina says. It’s only then that she notices her father staring blindly in their direction.

He looks bewildered, as though she and Church have started speaking an incomprehensible language. She’s debating if she should explain the joke when her father lifts his wrist up, like he’s checking the time. A second later, he lowers his arm with a sigh. “We’ll table the discussion. I have an early meeting tomorrow, so I really should go.” He starts to rise and pauses. His eyes flicker towards Carolina. "I'll see you next Tuesday then."

"Well, sort of," Church says with a sharp grin.

Her father doesn’t look amused. “Next Tuesday?” he repeats.

Carolina’s heart gives a stupid flip in her chest. “Yeah. Next Tuesday.”

Everyone watches her father’s slow exit. He doesn’t hit his foot on the door-frame on the way out, which earns a disappointed look from Church. Apparently he decides not to try the stairs again, because there’s a pop of displaced air and silence, and then the expected thunderclap.

No one says anything for a minute. Carolina pretends not to see the concerned way Kimball is watching her. Then Church slouches in his chair.

“So, Grey, how long before you get bored and let me skip these dinners?”

Grey tilts her head. She taps her finger against her lips. A thoughtful gleam lights her eyes. “Oh, probably not until after you’re finished being grounded. So, let's say a century and a week or so?”

Church makes a face. “Ugh. Yeah. That's what I thought.”

Carolina, meanwhile, feels some of the tension drain out of her. The dinner had been awkward, but her father and Church hadn’t been at each other’s throats the entire time like she’d worried they would be, and her father hadn’t given her an excuse. And now he’s agreed to visit every week. Maybe this year won’t be as hard as the last.

**Author's Note:**

> **Dishonorable Mention**
> 
> 3x07 - The Cutting Edge - What a cool title for such an uninspiring science fair episode. For one thing, it's too early in the year. For another, it does nothing with the premise or advance the plot of season three at all. Oh no, Church procrastinated on his science fair project and tries to use magic to cheat. His magic doesn't help him, and Church fails the assignment and has to do an essay to make up the grade. The fact that an episode involving the science fair, which is probably Simmons' favorite part of the school year, barely even involves him just shows what a giant shrug of an episode this is. If it wasn't for some references about Doctor Church, we'd swear this episode was a scrapped one from last season.


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